


Threads of An Old Life

by orphan_account



Series: Thaw of Winter's Chill [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Everybody Lives, M/M, Nobody is Dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-09
Updated: 2014-01-09
Packaged: 2018-01-08 03:55:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1128039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the hobbit leaves Erebor after the Battle of The Five Armies, and the Middle Earth returns to a state of prosperity Thorin Oakenshield visits his Burglar back in Bag End.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Threads of An Old Life

The land of the Shire was filled with the very air of peace, drifting amongst the spring droplets of rain, and twining within the tall growing greenery that decorated every post, and every garden. A rebirth; a shake from winter’s chill that clung to the green and yellow doors and froze window hinges. Hobbiton, and Bilbo’s very own life returned to what it once was before a tall, blue, pointed hat had made it’s way through the Shire. So still, so calm, like a pond without fish or ducks or any disturbance. Had it not been what Bilbo had wished? Had Bag End not been what he desired in the cold nights when roots twisted his back, and foul smells had enveloped them all? Why then did everything of his life hang like a cobweb over the painting of his old world, of a world before pain and darkness?

Bilbo tapped his quill against the dotting rag, little droplets of thickening black ink splattering in familiar formations. Just how many nights had he sat in the silence of the home, and stirred without surge of thought? 

Staring down at the parchment, the halfling found himself in a staring match the off-white pages of his ‘book’, though it could hardly be called such now. The edges of the pages were yellowing with the smoke from pipeweed, and beneath the red leather cover laid a battle field of maps and letters. It seemed odd to Bilbo, how he found himself incapable of words of the past with the current monotonous drone of the present. Niavity had guided his emotions when walking back to the Shire, for he had thought he would return without qualm and a quaint life, a halfling’s life, would seem all the better now that he had lived an adventurous one. To pick up a quill rather than a sword-- but ever his hand trembled, and fingers curled wishing to grasp the hilt of his blade. 

Sighing, and tossing aside his feather, the halfling stood, feet stomping about, pacing their worn path from the study to the kitchen. The fire crackled, and his dinner bubbled, and his stomach churned. He only had a week, two at the most if the dwarf travelled slower in his age before his home would again take on a a visitor. His heart quivered at the thought, and his hand slipped back into his pocket, fingers rolling over the smooth edges of the gold he held so close to himself. A flurry of questions followed the hobbit’s mind as he thought of his friend; the lover of his past. Time had passed, but even five years could not erase the sight of Thorin winding about in chambers of gold, light flickering off of the gems and stones and twinning a malicious dance in the cool pools of his eyes. Five years could not ease the sting of his words, nor the weight of his chains… Nor the depth of his touch, the greed of his kiss. 

Just then, a loud snap sounded from his window, and for the briefest of seconds Bilbo clutched his hands about the ring. 

“Pst! Mister Bilbo!” Called an high voice from beneath his window sill. Walking over, unlatching, and pushing open the glass the hobbit found himself facing the cool pour of the rain and a small, smiling hobbit. 

“Mister Bilbo! You won’t believe what I just saw! You won’t guess, I just know you won’t!” 

The elder quirked his brow, and his hands pushed aside his dampening hair. “It’s raining out-- come to the other side, you can stay inside until--”

“No, Mister Bilbo! I can’t come to the door-- that’s the thing you see! A dwarf-- a large hairy dwarf is at your door messing about with his coats! Is he the one from your stories? Is he? He was lost and I sent him the long way round to your house!” Bilbo’s throat dried, and his tongue caught behind his teeth. He was early-- too early. The hobbit closed the window quickly after the briefest of ‘thank you’s’ and rushed about to the front of his house, ducking beneath the visible windows, and stealing a glance into the wet night. And in just a moment, the halfling’s heart swelled, and his fingers trembled against the wood of his door. 

Stooping down and racing to his bedroom, Bilbo tossed the dampened robe off, and shuffled his hair about, grasping his suspenders from his sides and throwing them over his shoulders. Tossing a glance to the side of the room, the hobbit caught his reflection in his vanity, candlelight catching on the ridges of his cheeks and shadowing the deepening lines of his face. They ran like rivers now, not merely streams in lines of laugher. Shaking his head with a brief, shaky laugh, the hobbit began tucking his shirt in when he heard the brief rap of the dwarf’s knuckles on his door. 

Sighing, at the state of him home the halfling’s preparations were cut short. Walking to the door, Bilbo paused for a moment, hand grasping the door, and with a surge of Tookishness, he swung the door open, air escaping his chest in that moment. 

And in that moment, he swore that all the butterflies of Mirkwood had found their way into his stomach and were flying about. 

“Thorin,” The name pressed against his lips softly as they curled into a trembling smile. “I-I.. You must come in,” Bilbo stepped to the side, his eyes falling off of the dampened King and to the floor. “Terrible weather we’re having-- truly awful.” The words left his mouth in a nervous storm, and his eyes again laced back up, winding past the furs and leathers, to the tucked back hair of the dwarf. Silver had aged it, adding nothing but magnificence, and the short beard, the beard he could still feel between his fingers, had grown considerably. Roses blossomed in the halfling’s cheeks as he pushed the door closed behind the door, the whipping wind silenced giving rise to only the creaks and groans of the hobbit hole. 

“You travel slower than I thought-- I expected you but a week ago.” Had it only been true, preparation had evaded Bilbo, but his heart was ever prepared for the moment at hand; truly, it had wished for it for many moons. 

“You look well, my friend.”


End file.
